


A Meeting of True Minds

by Cahaya (Tarlaith)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Bar fights, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Spirit Animals, supernatural powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8750830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlaith/pseuds/Cahaya
Summary: Ever since the war, Goodnight's abilities have been fickle at best. Then the owl returns.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea ambushed me. D:  
> Not beta-ed. Only the strong survive.

Goodnight wasn't really paying attention as he trudged up the stairs to the local saloon: he was off his horse for the first time in two days, his inner thighs were burning like fire, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten a real meal and he was determined to fall into the next available bed as soon as he got his hands on some solid food. Because if he had – paid attention, that is – he would have heard the commotion inside the saloon and turned around on the spot, sleep be damned. As it was, he pushed the door open with a little less flourish than usual, blurry gaze cast somewhere downward to discourage any attempts of conversation, and jumped almost a foot high when a bottle hit the wall right beside his head. It shattered, raining down shards and drops of whiskey on Goodnight, who stood frozen in the door frame like a startled rabbit. The fact that his eyes hadn't adjusted to the smoky darkness inside yet worked in his favor: he couldn't make out any drawn guns and that, in turn, didn't propel him back onto a battlefield long gone.

Something that looked like a chair sailing past startled him out of his shock and he dove backwards and to the side, right in time for a dirty boot to narrowly miss his face. The smell of manure assaulted his senses and suddenly there was something else, too: a tingling sensation crawling down his spine, the world sharpening and slowing around him, followed by the exhilarating rush of his mind pouring out into reality.

It slithered across the front porch, slipped in beneath the door and into the saloon to curl like smoke just above the wooden planks and Goodnight couldn't suppress the shaky laugh that bubbled up inside him because of course _this_ was the moment his empathy decided to resurface.

Ever since the war it was an on-off game, usually he got nothing, no matter how hard he tried. No feelings, not even deliberate projections – his abilities were either dead or dormant, making him the single most useless Guide in the Midwest. The humiliation of it had faded a long time ago – once he was the most powerful empath Baton Rouge had to offer, now he wasn't even enough of one to form so much as a platonic bond. On the good side: the Tower didn't give a shit about him any more, since he couldn't do any real harm. At least most days.

But there were days like this as well, moments like now, when it felt like a trigger had been pulled inside him, releasing all that he once was. When he wasn't just the traumatized war “hero” Goodnight Robicheaux, but _more_. A Guide who could take out a troublesome Sentinel across a crowded battlefield, unfazed by canon fire or the heavy, tearing cloud of pain and death that threatened to devour any sane mind that came too close. Who could – and _had_ – broken soul-bonds behind enemy lines, turning supremely controlled Sentinels into feral beasts shredding their own battalions.

Goodnight wouldn't do something like that any more – he wasn't sure he even could – but once he had been a feared warrior, and this reminder of his former bravery felt better than waking up sweat-soaked and cold from terrifying nightmares. Right now he was a Guide again, completely in tune with the heated swirl of emotions around him: rage, anger, someone's need to prove himself, a lot of aggression and something more beneath it, a familiar pull.

It barely brushed the edges of his consciousness but it was unmistakably _there_ : tendrils of a mind coiling up the pillars that held the building upright, clinging to the wood, trying urgently to anchor themselves in the hard presence of reality. It was an unbonded Sentinel.

He – because it was definitely a man – hadn't noticed Goodnight yet, fortunately, or he would've latched onto him by now.

Goodnight turned onto his belly and robbed forward until he could peek into the saloon. A few tables had been knocked over and he could make out a few details, mostly dirty boots. Men were clawing at each other, all of them humans or dormants, and amidst the moving throng of bodies was the Sentinel, his presence burning like a flare. He was lean and broad-shouldered – Goodnight saw that much in a moment his assailants let up - with darker olive-tinted skin and dressed in black. His hands whirled with inhuman speed, almost too fast for the eye to see, body flowing like water as he punched, ducked and spun. The glint of polished blades flickered between his fingers.

Goodnight watched, slack-jawed with awe, not only fascinated by the Sentinel's fighting style but also by his stubbornness. He was outgunned – one against seven fully grown men accustomed to dirty fighting would be too much even for him – and Goodnight could see that he knew it in the way he controlled his movements, saved his strength.

It wouldn't be enough: he was overwhelmed. Panic slowly seeped in, making him stumble, his senses swamping him with input to find a way out.

One of the attackers – a huge guy with a face as red as his neckerchief – shoved the Sentinel back into a pillar with an audible crack. He was back on his feet instantly, but swayed slightly: easy prey. The attacker grinned and spit out, then pulled his gun. The Sentinel lurched forward and kicked it out of his hands, tumbled over a tipped chair and right into a stack of plates.

Someone yelled a war-cry – something dirty about someone else's heritage – and the Sentinel rolled off the table, dodged as he heard the floorboards creak behind him, but he had lost his focus. Goodnight could feel the Sentinel's grip on his own senses slipping: smell and hearing pulling in different directions, sight too slow to follow, and worry about the gun.

It was heartbreaking to watch, and Goodnight's instincts yelled at him to step in right now and help the Sentinel, but he'd seen enough of this to be careful. He didn't know the guy and couldn't even begin to guess how desperately he would hold onto any straw dangled in front of him. Once the fight was over all that restless energy would need an outlet – and Goodnight knew his bad luck enough to know that he'd probably end up being raped by the half-feral _male_ Sentinel right there on the ground.

He was just about to crawl back and fetch his horse – he wouldn't get food or sleep here, after all – when he heard a soft click behind him. A cocked gun.

The Sentinel startled so hard even his _mind_ shuddered. Helplessness and fear exploded around Goodnight and he was on his feet immediately. He reached out without meaning to, grasped the flailing tendrils of the Sentinel's awareness as they were about to snap and curled around them, holding on with the same ease he knew from before the war.

The Sentinel stumbled, eyes going wide at the unexpected assistance – and also because he didn't think anyone would help scum like him. The feeling was fleeting, but it hit Goodnight like a punch to the gut. He gasped for air, throat burning, and pushed into the Sentinel's mind, careful not to shatter his shields in the process. Thoughts and emotions beat down on him, a mess of words and colors and fear.

Cutting the losses, Goodnight suppressed the Sentinel's sense of taste, giving his other senses more room to unfold. He numbed the touch, too, and made the painful pull of the Sentinel's overstressed muscles fade into a background burn. It wasn't the most elegant of Guiding but it worked, once the Sentinel's initial resistance crumbled like a soggy biscuit under Goodnight's gentle but unrelenting touches.

It was a weird and heady feeling to be so intimately connected with someone else's mind again, a Sentinel's especially, and to know exactly what was going on without having to see it. The Sentinel snarled, grabbed a new knife and took out one man after the other while Goodnight tweaked his senses, redirecting their input and weaving their flow into a pattern that worked, as a unit. There was a crunch from the inside, followed by a flood of euphoria, and Goodnight winced. The Sentinel had just snapped someone's neck by smashing him into a table. It was probably the guy with the gun. Then he moved on to reassert his dominance with a vengeance, holding on to Goodnight as if his assistance was a given, which was dangerous territory neither of them had time to think about now.

The fight was over soon, the Sentinel bared his teeth and growled, all exuberant euphoria in the face of his victory. Goodnight couldn't help but grin as well. He might not be brave enough for a real brawl any more, but he'd enjoyed this more than he expected. Cautiously, he stepped through the door into the thick, alcohol-reeking quietness that settled like smoke around them.

The Sentinel rolled his shoulders and cocked his head, curiosity and thankfulness lapping at Goodnight's consciousness, quickly overrun by hotter emotions as aggression predictably bloomed into want and possessiveness.

Goodnight met the Sentinel's dark eyes dead on, refusing to back down, projecting as much serenity as he could.

Eventually, the Sentinel relaxed. “I think I owe you my thanks. My name is Billy Rocks,” he said in almost flawless English. He – Billy – then walked up to the bar and retrieved two unbroken glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, holding both up questioningly.

“Well, Mister Rocks,” Goodnight said, elated. It wasn't sleep or food, but beggars couldn't be choosers. “I'm Goodnight Robicheaux. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! A wild update appeared!  
> (Bet you didn't see this coming, lol!)
> 
> Betaed by Random Interloper. ;-)

All friendliness bled out of Billy Rocks just at the mention of his name. His hand flew to the single unused pistol on his belt. “Are you here to take me in?”

It was a loaded question, especially coming from an agitated Sentinel. He looked perfectly calm, but he was still boiling inside. His thoughts swirled around him like a desert storm, bombarding Goodnight's shields like grains of sand. _Want, mine, take, possess_. Knowing what this Sentinel could do to him if Goodnight lost his grip on his shields even for a second, he chose his next words very carefully. “Do I look suicidal?”

Rocks' amusement swept over Goodnight like a blast from an oven. “You look like you haven't had a drink in _hours_. Sober people do stupid things.”

He poured a glass of muddy rotgut that looked like rusty blood diluted in water and pushed it towards Goodnight, who stared at it like it might bite him. It smelled like something the town Pill would keep body-parts in.

“Better hurry, before the authorities show up.”

There was a manic glint in Rocks' eyes as he watched Goodnight pick up the glass with shaking fingers and take a tentative sip. The liquor all but corroded away his tongue. “Think they won't take too kindly to runaway Sentinels fighting on their village grounds?”

“This was no fight.” Rocks brought the bottle to his lips and threw his head back, emptying it in one long gulp. His Adam's apple bobbed beneath smooth, slightly pale bronze skin. “This was merely a discussion of the house rules.”

At Goodnight's stare, Rocks pointed to the unconscious barkeeper, who sat propped up against the wall, held in position by a knife through his shoulder.

“His house. My rules.”

Another trail of prickling heat ghosted along the edge of Goodnight's awareness. He drew his shields tighter around himself while trying to look nonchalant. “And what rule of yours were these gentlemen unwilling to adhere to, pray tell?”

Rocks smirked just enough to show a hint of teeth, picked up a black hat and beat it against the wooden pillar his soul had been clinging to not five minutes ago. Glass shards poured down onto the man with the smashed neck, sticking to his hair like snowflakes. “Want to add it to the warrant after I've left? As a warning?”

“I'd like to avoid a faux pas like that.” Goodnight's voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears. To cover it up he gulped down half his glass – and immediately regretted it as his throat closed up from the burn.

While Goodnight was busy coughing and gasping for air like a fish on land, vision blurring, Rocks knelt down beside the corpse and frisked him. He produced a money pouch and a silver watch, transferring both into his own pockets.

“Stealing from the dead, Mr. Rocks?”

“Taking back what is mine.” The Sentinel patted the dead man's jacket until something rustled beneath the fabric. It was a piece of browned paper, ripped along the edges, and Goodnight didn't need to see the huge black letters at the top to know exactly what that was.

He turned away and pulled out his neighbor's plate from under the guy's limp hand.

“Stealing from the living, _Monsieur_ Robicheaux?”

“He's dead.”

Rocks cocked his head, making it look even more angular in the dim light – god, those cheekbones – and sidled over to kick the man's shin. The guy grunted, slurring “just a minute, Ethel” before pillowing his head more comfortably on his arms and snored. The edge of a Jack of Hearts sticking from his sleeve fluttered in front of his nose.

Definitely alive, despite the absolute lack of a mental pulse or presence. Goodnight's chest tightened. He focused on the man more closely but to no avail. There was nothing to pick up on. Heartbeat racing, Goodnight turned his attention to the Sentinel, his fear of being sucked into that seductive swirl of colors and emotions momentarily forgotten. Dread swept over him. That same unsettling sensation one got when walking through dark woods at night, circled by an unseen predator. But the danger was still there. Goodnight clutched at the feeling like a drowning man.

Rocks' eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to say something but Goodnight was quicker, reaching into his pocket to throw down a handful of coins. They clattered onto the bar before leaping off into different directions.

“That should settle it. If he gets hungry...,” Goodnight stopped as his mental grip faltered, giving way to rising panic. His shields flickered like candles in a windy church and he had to force his voice to sound steady. “There are enough dead people here.”

The Sentinel's nostrils flared, eyes glinting with renewed interest. He stepped forward, right into Goodnight's space. He was even more handsome up close, with thick lashes for an Asian and a few day's worth of stubble.

“Now that I think of it, it's rare to see a trained Guide prancing around on the Frontier.”

Goodnight's stomach dropped. “I'm not a Guide.”

Rocks' lips curled. His breath smelled of chewing tobacco and oranges, with the spicy tang of _Sentinel_ beneath it that only ever seemed to appeal to Guides. Which Goodnight was. A weak, defenseless Guide alone in a room full of more or less dead people and an excited unbound Sentinel.

“All alone.”

 _Unbonded. Up for grabs._ Goodnight moved backwards until the bar pressed into his back, hating the panicked fluttering of his own heart. If the Sentinel couldn't outright hear it, he must've at least picked up on the smell of fear permeating the air. “I'm not.”

Rocks placed his hand on the bar, casually brushing Goodnight's jacket with his bloodied thumb.

Goodnight's fingers found the butt of his rifle out of their own accord. He always kept it on him, slung over his shoulder, despite never intending to use it again. But now he wasn't so sure.

The Sentinel's gaze flickered down, then up to catch Goodnight's and held it. The hunger in his eyes had not lessened. In fact, it only seemed to have become stronger, pinning Goodnight in place. Helpless like a startled rabbit, he could do nothing but watch, wide-eyed and terrified, as Rocks leaned in to brush the tip of his nose along Goodnight's jaw, not quite touching him.

“Shame. I could use someone like you; a white, male Guide.”

His voice was deep like the earth's rumbling down in a cave. The heat pouring off him seeped through Goodnight's clothes, stroking and teasing his skin with promises he didn't dare to think about. He clenched his hands around the edge of the bar to suppress a shiver. “That your type?”

“White male Americans listen to white male Americans.” Rocks' breath burned on Goodnight's neck, sending shivers down his spine to pool and flutter in his belly and he had to close his eyes. The dark tendrils of the Sentinel's consciousness pressed close, tearing through layer after layer of his shields as they wrapped around him to strangle him. Goodnight pushed back as hard as he could, trying to cut off Rocks' senses again, but his own grip faltered instead.

The Sentinel didn't even seem to notice. “Easier to track people, if the right people ask the questions.”

A strand of raven hair tickled Goodnight's ear. Or was that cold sweat? _Please_ , he thought, _wherever you are, sheriff, now would be a good time to show up._

Rocks fingers curled around the grip of Goodnight's rifle, covering the thirty-seven marks on the side. He tugged, easing it out of Goodnight's hands, who tried to hold on until Rocks let out a low growl, his teeth far too close.

Goodnight winced. The last of his empathy faded into nonexistence, leaving him naked. Fear rushed through his veins like icy water and before he could stop himself he'd seized the Sentinel and _pushed_. He would have had more success trying to dislodge the Rocky Mountains. He ended up shoving himself away, just an inch or so to the side. “I don't run with criminals.”

Rocks' lifted a brow and Goodnight got the distinct feeling that he was being laughed at. Then the Sentinel shrugged, like he had lost interest.

Something twinged unpleasantly in Goodnight's gut. Disappointment? _Impossible._

Rocks walked to the barkeeper, rifle tapping against his boot, and pulled out the knife lodged in the man's shoulder. He examined the bloodied steel. “A wise decision. We are dangerous men, us criminals.”

Voices poured in from the street: an angry bark and a shout, accompanied by a ruffling sound. A translucent silver shadow appeared in the space over the swinging doors, sweeping into the room to land on Rocks' shoulder. Goodnight's mouth went dry as the salt plains as everything inside him drew up in terror. That was...!

Rocks wiped his knife on the corpse's waistcoat and slid it back into his belt. Two sets of eyes fixed on Goodnight; both identically pitch-black, but only those of the spotted owl soulless like death itself, replaying all of Goodnight's worst nightmares, summoning up memories of every single man he had killed. He almost didn't hear the Sentinel's voice over the roar in his ears.

“Better make sure you stay far, far away, bounty hunter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will slowly crawl its way to completeness I guess...
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
